


Wherever you choose to be, it's the wrong place

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Disney RPF
Genre: F/F, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Happy Birthday Selena. Your best friend's a cutter"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever you choose to be, it's the wrong place

Its not supposed to happen this way (its not supposed to happen) but Selena catches you at it in the bathroom (she must have followed you in, oh god, you didn't hear the door the second time, you were listening so hard). A few seconds after you press the chilled metal to your aching wrist (hiss "fuck" under your breath) you hear her voice. "Dems?" It rises at the end and damnit she sounds really worried. Has she noticed (she would have said something), has she seen?

But you can't come out now cause your wrist is oozing red and you're blinking back tears. It wouldn't do to press paper to the mark and resurface, smiling (though, its what you've done before). "Demi, I know that's you," she says. "I can see your shoes."

Still, you can't reply, cause that would mean this is really you, hiding in a bathroom stall, hunched over your own body, trying to come alive by dying a little more each time. You can't even breathe, but you do that anyway, your body refusing to listen when you say "stop" (even your subconscious whining). And besides, its her birthday, and you're just going to ruin everything ("Happy Birthday Selena. Your best friend's a cutter").

The air changes with her silence and you can feel her getting mad. She's still worried, but covering it. You want to kiss her. "Whatever, D. I want you at my party, but if you want to hide out in here all night, I guess that's your prerogative." You bite your lip, can't stop the smallest noise of protest. (Don't leave).

You suck on it, tasting your sin. You fold up your boyfriend's pocket knife and drop it back into your purse (he'll start looking for it someday, you know, but he won't start with you). You want to say it ("I love you, Sel.") you want to open the door. And this time, her voice says something else (give in, give in) when it says "Demi?" one more time.

She sees your ruined face and your raw wrist and she's quiet, like she's never been. She doesn't ask you why, because you think she knows. She wets her thumb with a quick lick, one swipe under each eye. Holds up lipstick, says "pucker up," smiles and does a quick swipe (one, two). She rummages in her bag for a moment, and you stop her, hand on her unscarred wrist, rub a thumb across her jumping vein.

"No coverup, Sel. It stings." And then she knows, if she didn't before, that this isn't the first time. And maybe, she knows too, that it won't be the last. You squeeze her wrist, feeling her blood pump, strong and alive (let it infect you, let it fill you up) and you press your mouth, quick, against hers, leaving a bright stain of red.  
Something else throbs and you want to say it ("I love you, Sel.") but you don't, and you know that if she stayed with you forever, you wouldn't need your boyfriend's pocket knife, or your boyfriend, or the pain, or the darkness. But you can't ask that of her.

She already opened your gift, but it's never enough. You're ruining everything, again, and she's struggling to smile, so you gift her again, this time with a promise you don't know how to keep. "I'm trying to stop." (You start to think about the benefits of not getting caught.) Selena kisses your hand, departs for the party, and you stop thinking about her. You act natural, mingle. (If you steal a glance or two in her direction, it can't be helped. She is the birthday girl, after all.)


End file.
